Kill 'Em with Cayenne (30 page)

Now I was the one to roll my eyes. In my dreams, I too was drop-dead gorgeous, independently wealthy, talented, creative, “really” nice—and drove a white Cadillac Escalade.

“She had this amazing idea for
Some Like It Hot
. She pitched it to an executive on the Cooking Network, and he signed it up like that.” Lindsey snapped her fingers to demonstrate. “The rest, as they say, is history.”

Or the world according to Carter Kincaid.

“Carter's showing me how to frame a subject through a viewfinder. He's a gifted videographer. Even Barbie thinks so.”

If I heard Lindsey mention Barbie's and Carter's names one more time, I'd scream. “Carter Kincaid is much too old for you,” I pointed out. I picked up a handful of credit card receipts and proceeded to sort them. “How is it you've been spending so much time around him?”

Lindsey flipped her ponytail over her shoulder. “Carter filmed Doc's team for possible inclusion. He wanted to document what goes on behind the scene.”

The door swung open, and Clay Johnson squeezed through holding a kettle grill. Lindsey ran to help. Clay, young and fit from working construction, looked strong enough to manage without Lindsey's assistance, but I didn't quibble.

“Mama said you wanted this old thing for a display of some sort,” he said.

“Hey, Clay,” I said. “You can set it in that space I cleared near the front window.”

“Got more stuff in the truck.” He left and returned with a cardboard box filled with grilling tools, oven mitts, and an assortment of cookbooks. “Mama thought you might could use these, too.”

“Thank her for me, will you, Clay.” I added a chef's hat and red-checkered tablecloth to the collection of props I planned to transform into an eye-catching window display.

Clay turned his attention on Lindsey. “Hey, squirt.”

“Hey yourself.”

Clay dusted off his hands. “My brother's busier than a one-armed paperhanger down at the garage these days,” he said to Lindsey. “Caleb told me he probably won't have the brakes changed on your Mustang until tomorrow. Seein' as how we're both on Doc's team, he wondered if I would give you a lift to the butt-rubbin' party.”

Lindsey shrugged and smiled prettily. “Sure.”

“Guess that settles it then. I'll be by around six to pick you up. See you, Miz Prescott.”

I'd watched the byplay between my daughter and Reba Mae's son with interest. Her twins were twenty, the same age as my Chad. The three boys had been inseparable until Chad went off to college and enrolled in pre-med. Clay always did have a soft spot for his friend's baby sister, whether it was punching the kid who stole her doll in grade school or offering a ride to a butt-rubbin' party.

I went back to sorting credit card receipts when I noticed a piece of paper protruding from a drawer. When I opened the drawer, I discovered the crumpled TV section I'd found wedged into Becca's overstuffed chair. I must've stashed it there after returning home with a basket full of African violets.

Lindsey peered over my shoulder. “What's that you're reading?”

“Nothing.” I stuffed the paper into the pocket of my beige crop pants. “Sweetie, I need you to keep an eye on the shop while I run a few errands.”

“Whatever.” She sighed the sigh of a martyr. “Taylor's going to do my nails before the party and I'm going to do hers, so don't be too long.”

“Promise.” I stripped off my apron and hurried out the door.

Becca had circled the show
Vanished
with a bold black marker. She'd had every intention of staying home and watching television the night she was killed, not going gallivanting across town brisket in hand.
Vanished
also happened to be my ex-mother-in-law's favorite. Melly mentioned she was in the habit of DVRing episodes. I needed to find out if she'd recorded the episode from the night in question.

This could turn out to be a wild-goose chase, but I had nothing to lose. Who knew, finding a crumpled TV section might be a genuine clue or even Divine intervention. McBride claimed he didn't believe in “coincidence.” I decided to keep my options open. From down the street I could hear the high school band practicing for tomorrow's awards ceremony. The clash of cymbals and the thud of a bass drum reverberlated in my ears as I hurried toward Melly's, which only added to my growing unease that time was running out.

 

C
HAPTER
32

M
ELLY GREETED ME
with a warm smile. “Piper, dear, this a nice surprise, but shouldn't you be working? Taking a morning off is no way to run a business.”

I gritted my teeth. “Mind if I come in? I need a favor, though you might think it's strange once you hear it.”

She stepped aside for me to enter. “All you have to do is ask.”

“I remembered a comment you made the other night. Something about how you and Becca shared a fondness for a certain TV show—
Vanished
.”

“Of course I remember,” she said peevishly. “Just because I'm getting up in years doesn't mean my memory isn't as sharp as ever. And yes, I never miss an episode.”

We were still in the foyer, but from the corner of my eye I could see the large flat screen in the living room. Next to it was a small black box, the type a cable company provided. “Did you happen to record the show the night Becca was killed?”

“I programmed my DVR to automatically record every new episode.” Melly walked over to the set, picked up the remote control, and pressed a series of buttons. “Have a seat, dear. I'll demonstrate.”

I complied, sinking down on the sofa. “That particular episode would have aired a week ago.”

Melly navigated the remote with the ease of a seasoned gamer. I should be taking notes, but then maybe not. A pricey cable service wasn't in my budget.

A number of screens appeared and disappeared until Melly found the one she searched for. Aiming the remote, she clicked a drop-down menu and scrolled through a lengthy list. Whoever said you couldn't teach old dogs new tricks obviously had never met Melly Prescott.

“Melly!” I exclaimed. “Where did you learn how to do all this?”

A pleased smile lit Melly's lined face. “It's not all that difficult, dear. I've discovered I have a natural aptitude for computers, TVs, and such. I'm considering purchasing one of those newfangled smartphones. One where I can download apps.”

Duly impressed, I smiled, too. Underneath the pearls beat the heart of a geek. In no time at all, she'd be texting with her thumbs. Clearing my throat, I reminded myself of the purpose for my visit. “It's a long shot, I know, but I wondered if
Vanished
was in any way related to Becca's death.”

“I don't see how.” Melly sat down in a wingback chair that converted into a recliner.

“Like I said, it's a long shot. I'm grasping at straws. Becca had every intention of watching her favorite TV show the night she died. It struck me as odd that shortly afterward she was killed in the town square.”
Or possibly in her own kitchen,
I thought, but kept the suspicion to myself.

“I hope you don't fancy yourself a detective like Miss Jane Marple in an Agatha Christie novel. Need I warn you, dear, that you're playing with fire? Last time you meddled, it nearly got you killed.” Melly made tsking sounds, then added, “I trust you'll be more careful.”

I'd learned my lesson well at the hands of a narcissistic sociopath. “I will, Melly. Don't worry.”

Placated, Melly asked, “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee or tea?”

“No, thank you.” As the credits began to roll, I settled back to watch. I already felt foolish for making a big deal out of what in all likelihood would turn out to be nothing.

The program Becca had circled focused on the Witness Protection Program operated by the U.S. Marshals Service and administered by the Department of Justice. Their spokeswoman—a PR dynamo dressed for success in a tailored suit—related that more than eighty-five hundred witnesses and nearly ten thousand family members had participated since the program's inception. To its credit none of the participants who followed the program's stringent guidelines had been harmed while under its active protection.

I sat straighter and paid closer attention when the interviewer asked if anyone had ever opted out of the program. The PR lady gave a rueful laugh and explained that though rare, it has happened. She cited an occasion when a witness complained that his new identity and new location were “boring as hell.”

A photo of a tough-looking guy with a wiry build, bushy hair, and port-wine stain marring one cheek flashed across the screen. “After living high on the hog,” the narrator explained, “life in the sticks was pretty dull for mobster Louie Coccetti. Nicknamed Vino due to the port-wine stain on his face, Coccetti was used to wearing Armani and driving a Porsche. The best WitSec could offer was a modest subsistence and medical care.”

“Fascinating, isn't it?” Melly commented as she fast-forwarded through a series of commercials.

“Um-hum,” I agreed. “What happens to those who leave?”

“Be patient, dear, and watch the show.”

No sooner had the program resumed when the interviewer asked the very same question I'd wondered about. “Some fade into the woodwork,” the narrator stated, “never to be seen again. Others can't resist their old life of crime. Unfortunately, most who sign themselves out don't fare very well.” The PR gal stared directly into the camera. “The Mob has a long memory and an even longer reach.”

The program over, Melly clicked off the television. “Did that satisfy your curiosity?”

I got up to leave. “Like I said earlier, grasping at straws.”

Poor Maybelle. Some help I turned out to be. I wasn't any closer to finding Becca's killer than I had been the day I'd found her body. I wondered if Miss Jane Marple ever felt this discouraged.

*   *   *

When I returned to Spice It Up!, my conscience gave me a swift kick at seeing the harassed expression on Lindsey's pretty face. She gave me a look as if to say,
How could you go off and desert me
? I'd seen the same look countless times on Casey's furry face. Wordlessly I donned an apron and set to work.

Business was brisk. Grill masters, amateur and pro alike, came in to purchase last-minute ingredients. My supply of chili peppers was nearly depleted. The grinder I used for spices overheated from all the use. I forgot to eat lunch. It was mid-afternoon before the shop experienced a lull. Tired, famished, and frazzled aside, I felt elated that Spice It Up! was thriving.

“Is it okay if I go take a look around?” Lindsey asked hopefully. “I don't think I've ever seen Brandywine Creek this busy.”

“Take the rest of the day off,” I told her. “Go!”

Lindsey didn't need further encouragement. She tugged off her apron and stuffed it under the counter. “I'll take Casey with me.”

I felt a twinge of envy as I watched the two head toward the square. All day long, we'd watched rigs pull into town and set up operations. These rigs ran the gamut from customized RVs—some bigger than my living room—to the hook-behind-a-pickup variety. Most were creatively christened with names such as
Pig 'n a Pit, Skin and Bones,
and
Smoke This.
The grills, I'd observed, were just as diverse, ranging from stainless-steel monstrosities large enough to roast an elephant to battered oil drums. I drew in a deep breath and smelled woodsmoke. Hickory, or maybe oak or pecan, most pitmasters agreed woods were where barbecue got its flavor.

Lindsey had no sooner left than a weary-looking Maybelle appeared clutching a large manila envelope. “Just saw Lindsey with that cute little pup of yours. It was hard to tell who was taking whom for a walk.”

I took the apron Lindsey had carelessly stashed and smoothed the wrinkles. “Have you ever considered owning a pet, Maybelle?”

“It's on my bucket list.”

I stared at her, curious. “You have a bucket list?”

Maybelle gave me a feeble smile. “Once this is over—provided I'm not behind bars—I've decided to make some changes in my life.”

“What sort of changes?” I refolded the apron and put it away.

Maybelle shrugged her narrow shoulders. “Becca's death hit me hard—harder than I ever would've imagined. You might say that it sent me into a tailspin.”

“Reba Mae and I were worried about you.”

“I know you were, and don't think I don't appreciate your friendship,” Maybelle said. “Hearing Becca was dead started me thinking. My life's a shambles. No husband, no children. A dead-end job. I don't want to look back and know I've spent my lifetime handing out brochures to tourists. I want to travel, see something of the world. I want to see if the Grand Canyon is really grand. Watch the ball drop on New Year's Eve in Times Square. Go to Disney World. Visit Niagara Falls. Pretty pathetic, isn't it?”

“No, not at all. You deserve some happiness. “

“Folks I've known since childhood are starting to give me funny looks. I keep expecting Chief McBride to barge into the Chamber of Commerce and lead me out in handcuffs,” Maybelle confessed.

“McBride will get to the bottom of this, Maybelle,” I said, patting her shoulder.

From the expression on her face, my words seemed to have little effect on her doom and gloom. “Nice of you to say, Piper, but things don't look good. It's public knowledge Becca and I had it in for each other. To make matters worse, it doesn't help that I don't have an alibi for the night she died.”

“Try not to worry,” I counseled, knowing full well how empty those words were when your freedom—your life—was at stake.

“Thanks, Piper,” she said, summoning a smile. “This year crowd's even bigger than expected. I had to turn away a couple of last-minute entrants. They said they'd heard about Brandywine Creek and Becca's killing on TV. Thought they'd stop and try their luck here before heading up to Gatlinburg.”